


Coming Home

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [19]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, references to battle violence and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan returns to his homeland, but he is not the same man who left it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 2x02. Follows [Dirty Little Secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1794076)

As the ship pulled away from the dock, Athelstan felt a flutter in his belly. The last time he had crossed the sea on this vessel, he had been bound, shivering and fidgeting in the damp spray as his woolen habit irritated his skin, and trying to protect from the elements the blessed word he had risked his life to save. The Gospel in question now lay in fragments at the bottom of a chest in his room back in Kattegat, supplanted by the prayers he instead spoke to Odin.

It almost didn’t seem real that he was finally on his way back to England, but as an invader, not a native son returning home. Yet what home was there for him anyway? It was possible the monastery may have been rebuilt by now, but everyone he remembered from it was gone. He remembered little of his family of origin, and they were gone, too. 

Still, there were memories of the land itself: moist and green, the hills dotted with grazing sheep and patchworked with crops. He spoke his language with Ragnar, and had also taught some to Torstein, but their accents were still thick. It was possible that on this journey he might again speak freely with someone who understood his words without having to mentally translate them—that is, if he didn’t have to kill the person, first.

He fingered the haft of the axe at his hip. After all his training, it felt comfortable there, but he still wondered whether he really could kill someone with it; someone who wore a cross and who called out for mercy in the tongue in which he still dreamed.

Ragnar seemed to notice the faraway look on his face. He came up behind as Athelstan stood at the rail and set a hand on his shoulder. “I imagine this is strange for you,” he said, as quietly as the rushing wind and slap of waves from their wake would allow.

Athelstan glanced over at him and nodded. “It is, yes.”

“It is strange for me, too,” Ragnar admitted. “I remember clearly you being a bundle at my feet upon this ship, rather than standing at my side. For the record, though: I prefer you in this position.”

Athelstan raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Ragnar shoved him with his hip. “You know what I meant.”

Athelstan laughed. “I do.” Truly, he knew very well exactly what position Ragnar really preferred him in: the one he had been in this morning, as they quickly had a final encounter before the close quarters of the journey made such things impossible. He quivered with the memory, and hoped that they might have some private moments again once they had made land.

“You look good like this.” Ragnar looked over the new clothes and light leather vest Athelstan wore. “I think it suits you far better than that brown sack you once wore.”

Athelstan looked down. He kind of wished for something more protective, like the thicker, ring-fortified shirt Ragnar wore. But the reasoning for giving him something light and flexible—to better suit his fast, agile fighting style—made sense, too. In any case, Ragnar was right: it did feel more comfortable than his habit ever had. He smiled and stood a little taller.

The ship picked up speed as they headed into deeper water, and thick flocks of noisy shorebirds gave way to ever-fewer gulls and terns. Athelstan turned to look back as Kattegat grew smaller and finally faded from sight: One home behind; another ahead.

 

***

 

The morning had been a blur of filth and gore. How many had he mortally wounded or killed outright? Three? Four? His axe had bitten into the flesh of at least half a dozen: men who screamed as his blade struck them, and cursed with words he alone of the invaders knew. He was covered in dried fluids and bits of tissue belonging to those with whom he once had shared a country and a religion, and yet the only thing on his body that mattered was the shining band of twisted metal that encircled his left wrist.

It took all afternoon to lay their dead to rest, and to stack and burn the bodies of their fallen foes. Soon, the light from these pyres and a few campfires had replaced the orange glow through the western edge of the forest. It had been decided to rest here on the riverbank for the night and to venture further afield in the morning. Most of the company chose to forego unpacking and pitching tents; only shelters for the king and earl were raised.

Athelstan was exhausted, but more than that, he felt horribly dirty. Many of the others had already begun to bathe and clean their kits in the stream, but he felt more of a need to be alone than to join them. With a word to Torstein to keep watch in his stead, Ragnar accompanied him on a short walk upstream, to a place where the water was deeper and wider, and the loud voices and laughter of the camp only a faint, background din.

It felt good to peel off the reeking clothes he’d been wearing for the past several days of the journey. The air was somewhat chillier as night was descending, but the rush of it across his sticky, damp skin felt good anyway. Soon, the pair of them had stripped off, and sank into the cool, fresh water to wash away the things other bodies had left upon theirs.

“How are you feeling?” Ragnar spoke the first words they had exchanged in nearly an hour.

A simple question, and yet the answer was too complex for him to immediately find a way to explain it. Instead, he just shrugged, and flashed a weak smile.

“I’m proud of how you did out there today. You exceeded even my high expectations.” Ragnar glided through the waist-high water toward him and petted his shoulder.

“Thank you. I . . . I’m not sure I had any expectations for myself, to be honest. Once it all started, the only thing on my mind was trying not to die.”

“And trying to avoid me dying, too, apparently.”

Athelstan grinned and looked away. “Well, yes. Of course.” Under the water, he reached for the arm ring and fondled it. It still felt new and heavy as it dangled from his wrist; a shackle, and yet one that represented his freedom. That he had bought his freedom with the deaths of others did not escape him, but the reality that he was now just as free as Ragnar, if still pledged in fealty to him, somehow seemed to override the guilt.

Ragnar changed the subject. “How are you enjoying being back in England?”

“It’s nice, though this part of it isn’t really my country. Wessex lies at the southern end of the island. North of here is the kingdom of Mercia, and then further north still lies Northumbria, where I am from. I have been here many times before, as part of my missionary work, but this isn’t quite the land of my birth.”

“It is beautiful nonetheless, though. Everything here is so green and rich. The land here must be incredibly easy to farm. I can imagine that the people here are well fed, and must grow many things we cannot. When I ate at King Aelle’s table, there were vegetables—delicious ones—that I did not recognize.”

Athelstan nodded. “Yes. It is lush country. Northumbria, as you’ve seen, is harsher territory, but even there farms do thrive.”

Ragnar leaned back in the water, floating and staring up at the moon now shining through the treetops. “I love my country, but I admit: I can imagine living here, were it not for the differences between our peoples.”

Athelstan’s eyes traveled over Ragnar’s moonlit torso. A stirring began chasing away his fatigue. “Perhaps those differences are not entirely insurmountable.”

Ragnar stood back up and wrung the water out of his hair. “How do you mean?”

“I won’t lie: Trying to get Christians to accept pagans among them would be difficult. There would be many clashes, I’m sure, between the different beliefs, and different ways of seeing the world and how people ought to be within it.” He smiled shyly. “And yet you and I are proof that it can be done. We are proof that our two cultures can merge.”

Ragnar returned the smile. “Indeed we are. I remember many years ago talking with you about how we could learn from each other—how we could gain the best of who each of us are and become better, more complete men for it. Seeing you fighting today has told me for certain that has happened on your part. You are easily the equal of any young Northman.”

“Thank you. I am honored and glad to hear you say that. And I would say that it has happened on your part, too. You still have all the fire in your belly that any other man has, but I now know there is so much more to you than the mindless savage I once thought you to be. I might even call you an educated man, as your people go, and no less strong for it.”

“Educated!” Ragnar repeated with a giggle. “I don’t think I have ever been called that before.”

“Yet it suits you.” Athelstan drew close to him, close enough to feel the warm heat of his body and breath. He ran a now-clean hand over Ragnar’s head, fingertips tracing the lines of the images inked on the clean-shaven skin there. “The strength of your arm is matched by the strength of your mind.”

Ragnar reached for him, hands caressing his shoulders, and massaging his way down the sore muscles of his arms. “The reverse is surely true for you.” He leaned over, and captured Athelstan’s mouth in a deep kiss.

Athelstan’s heartbeat quickened, and he felt a strong surge low in his belly. His half-awake cock quickly came to full attention, and he moaned lightly. Slipping his arms around Ragnar’s waist, he trailed his hands down the strong, sure muscles of his lover’s back, and pulled his body close, groaning as Ragnar’s own growing erection pressed into his belly. When they finally parted to catch a breath, a strange look crept over Ragnar’s face.

Athelstan frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Ragnar turned and scanned their surroundings. Athelstan followed his eyes. Though it would’ve been hard to see anyone who might be deliberately hiding in the shadows, they seemed to be completely alone. Torstein had undoubtedly worked magic in keeping people away from where they were. He made a mental note to later ask Ragnar exactly why their good friend was so generous about this.

“We seem to be alone,” Athelstan noted.

“We are. I hear only the rustling of a deer nearby.”

“So why the odd expression?”

Ragnar gave him a half-smile; the kind he flashed when he was dissembling or being coy. “You earned your freedom today. You should take advantage of it.”

Athelstan raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Ragnar turned in his arms and arched his back. He looked over his shoulder. “I am no longer your master. I am your earl, still, but that does not matter to me. I want us to be equals, in every way we can be.” He rolled his hips, settling Athelstan’s cock against the cleft of his arse. “Long have I taken pleasure from your body this way. Tonight, it is your turn to take pleasure from mine. I want you to fuck me.”

Athelstan shuddered from head to toe with shock. For a moment, he considered protesting, or at least babbling questions, trying to make sure that Ragnar really did want what he was asking for and that he hadn’t just imagined that offer. But then he realized: the new man he was—this free man; this warrior—would not be so hesitant. So instead, he just smiled and purred into Ragnar’s ear, “Gladly.”

He took his cock in hand and pushed Ragnar forward slightly, giving him better access. He stroked a couple of fingers down the cleft, finding his target, and grinned drunkenly when Ragnar gasped at the touch. Shifting his hips and aiming, his slid his cock into position, mind racing as the tip kissed the twitching, tight opening. Impassioned and sure of himself as he was, he still didn’t want to accidentally hurt his lover, so he pushed slowly at first, but Ragnar’s body was surprisingly accommodating, and in mere moments, he was fully inside.

Ragnar sucked in a breath, and let it out in a harsh, low groan. Athelstan squirmed; he understood that feeling very well indeed. The feeling on his end, however, was unfamiliar, albeit in a good way. Though Ragnar’s mouth had taken him in many times, this was very different. A trace of a memory flickered into his mind: the one and only time before that he had penetrated someone. Yet that night he had been swimming in a mushroom-induced fog; he barely remembered the feeling of Thyri’s body as she had sunk down upon him. For all he could recall of the sensation, it might well have been a dream or fantasy. This moment, however, was entirely real, and entirely glorious.

The animal strength and power that had surged within him during the battle came to life again. Grabbing Ragnar’s hips and leaning over to bite the back of his neck, he began to thrust. Ragnar moaned, almost pathetically, and rocked back, seeming to try to bury Athelstan ever deeper with each stroke. In a few moments, Athelstan slipped a hand around to squeeze and pull at Ragnar’s stiff cock, adding the snap of his wrist to the fast, sharp rhythm his hips set.

So novel was the act, and so hot was his blood that Athelstan’s passion quickly came to a peak. Hips bucking in short, rabbit-fast jerks, he emptied deep inside, growling out his pleasure against Ragnar’s neck. Not long after, Ragnar’s own cock began pulsing and jerking in his hand, and his body tightened, squeezing the last drops from Athelstan’s still-hard organ.

Had anyone asked at that moment, Athelstan would have claimed to know every star in the sky, and every creature in the seas. He would have claimed to know all the earth and every mystery of the universe. He felt as if the gods—Odin? Thor? The Christian God?—had spoken directly to every fiber of his body, and gave them great praise. It was a wild, heady thing, this sense of power and mastery over such a strong man, and something heretofore utterly alien to him. Pride, in his old life, was a deadly sin, along with several of the others he had committed this day, but it felt wonderful all the same.

He clung to Ragnar’s body for several moments after they had finished, not wanting to leave its warm depths. But finally, his cock had softened enough that it slipped out anyway. Releasing his lover to allow him to recoup, he settled back in the water and simply smiled drunkenly, watching Ragnar with love and admiration. There would eventually be words to describe what they had just experienced, but none were needed now.

Athelstan couldn’t help a shiver. The night air was now growing cold, as was the stream; his bare skin prickled with the chill. Yet, it mattered not. His nakedness, and the use to which it had just been put only reminded him: As he never had been when he was in his homeland before, he was, finally, free.


End file.
